The True Fall - Happy Birthday, Sherlock
by EJ 12212012
Summary: About two and a half years after the fall, John finally takes actions. Told in three short chapters, this is the true fall. *MAIN CHARACTER DEATH*
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This was originally written as a birthday present to a friend. I decided to continue it. This is my first Sherlock fanfic attempt, so please enjoy and tell me what you think.**

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**Chapter 1:**

John envied Sherlock. He'd had it so easy, in the end: a short drop and a sudden stop. There had been no hesitation, and Sherlock had fallen with a thud. Even so, it was John that had to endure the true fall.

Every night he fell into bed and descended into a place in his mind that was so dark he never knew for certain whether he would ever find his way out again. He wasn't even sure he wanted to some nights. Even after decreasing so far as to be unable to as much as cry, the memories were far too beautiful.

People would insist it was time he move on. There was no moving on. He was too busy falling.

He would fall into the seat of a cab, fumbling with his cane. Even his mind was declining, giving John that phantom pain in his lower limb again.

John couldn't make the images stop. Every time anyone extended their hand for a handshake, John could only see one pair of delicate hands, one holding a phone to an ear, and one raised in his direction, bidding him to stop and listen to final words. Anytime John witnessed a whooshing of fabric, he saw only Sherlock's coat flapping madly against the rush of air as he plummeted to the ground.

Still, John felt himself plummet as well. He wished his own fall held the promise of an easy, quick death. John envied Sherlock. He'd had it so easy, in the end.

That thought brought John back to the present. The metal of the military issue Browning was cold and heavy in his hand. It was also familiar and comforting. It teased John with promises of such swift relief that it filled John with rich anticipation.

Perhaps there would be some that would envy John, in the end: a slight pull and an instant lull. John's hand did not tremble as it lifted the pistol. John's mouth was not dry, and the taste of metal on his tongue was oddly welcome. There was no hesitation, and John fell with a bang.

.:!*!:.

The moment that Lestrade's phone rung, and he had seen Sally's name, he'd got a bad feeling. Now, he was at one of the most emotional crime scenes he had ever had to work. There was one detail there that broke his heart more than all the others.

It wasn't the corpse of the wanted, ex-military man that had been shot point-blank between the eyes. It was not the fact that the bullet in his head was a match for the pistol that Greg knew belonged to one Doctor John Watson. It wasn't the box full of evidence beside the dead Colonel that not only proved Moriarty's existence but also that Sherlock Holmes had been innocent. It wasn't even the suicide note telling Lestrade what he would find in 221B. No, it wasn't any of those things.

It was the words on the wall behind Moran's body, spray-painted on the brick in a horrible yellow, which caused Greg to hold back tears. It was those words that made his heart clench uncomfortably and made him realize that his friend had never moved on the way everyone had thought that he had.

"Clean this up, and send some guys over to Baker Street." The Detective Inspector ordered quietly, his voice tired and strained. He turned to leave the building, unable to stay any longer, but he couldn't help a glance back at the brick wall. As he read it again, a tear finally fell.

"_Happy Birthday, Sherlock."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

Mycroft was sitting in his office when one of his men knocked on the door. Calling for him to enter, Mycroft sent the email he had been writing before meeting the eyes of one of his best men in the doorway.

"Yes, what is it?" Mycroft asked, suddenly slightly worried. He could tell that his man was nervous about telling him the news he was there to deliver.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran had been neutralized, sir. Your brother's innocence has been proved as well. Scotland Yard is putting the case together to clear his name as we speak."

"That's all very good news. What else do you have to tell me, Jenks?" The British Government encouraged icily.

"We weren't the ones that got to Moran or found the evidence." Jenks said slowly, his nerves getting the better of him and causing him to avoid what he thought would be devastating to the powerful, posh man before him. "It was Doctor Watson."

"Impressive, that he was able to work so well around my surveillance. His record obviously undermines his abilities." Mycroft said, very pleased with the turn of events. He knew that his younger brother would be even more so, as this was the final piece. Sherlock could come home now.

"There is more, Mr Holmes." Jenks announced, causing Mycroft to raise an impatient brow. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade wants you at 221B Baker Street as soon as possible."

It was then that all of the facts clicked together in the mind of the elder Holmes, and he found that it was suddenly a bit difficult to breathe. The date (Sherlock's birthday), John's actions (Moran's eradication and the released evidence), Jenks's nervousness, and Greg wanting him at Baker Street all pointed to only one conclusion.

Mycroft felt himself go pale, and he leaned his face against his hands. He wasn't quite able to hold back his tears as he heard the door shut softly when Jenks left him alone.

Mycroft had failed his little brother yet again, but this failure was one far more grievous. _"Watch over him. Don't let him do anything stupid while I am gone." _He had said. It had been only one request, one promise, one mission, and Mycroft Holmes had failed. Sherlock would never forgive him for this.

.:!*!:.

Fax invoice from Scotland Yard

Sent at 09.51 from Detective Inspector G. Lestrade

Received at 09.53 by Mycroft Holmes

_I am glad it will be you that finds all my hard work, Greg. What do you think? Would he have liked his birthday gift? I wonder if he would have thought all my work clever. He always did like the clever ones. _

_Sorry that you will have to deal with the mess that I am about to make of myself in 221B, mate. I tried for a while, to move on, I mean. Everyone kept telling me that it gets easier to deal with the pain, but it just got worse every day. I couldn't do it anymore. Life without him after having had a taste of what life could be just seems so boring. Life is dull. Life is tedious. Well, at least it is without Sherlock Holmes. _

_I know that you thought I was getting better. I felt better. When I finally decided to prove that he was not a fraud, I had purpose again. A short term purpose, mind you, for I knew where all of this would lead at that point, but a purpose none the less. I found out about Moriarty's right hand man during my illegal investigation. He was the one that ended up giving me everything I needed. _

_I don't know when it happened, but Sherlock became the centre of my universe. I have never been as lost as I have been since the fall. Sherlock had always been the one out of the two of us that knew the way. I will just have to trust that he still knows it. I would have followed him anywhere, Greg, and I know in my heart that he would have done the same for me. I'll just have to follow him like I always did before and hope that he waits for me, the bloody git._

_Your friend,_

_ John Watson_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

And Sherlock never did. He never forgave the man that failed him after Sherlock had trusted him. How could he? He had come so far, done so much, and for what? His Doctor was dead! He had sat in his armchair, facing the corner of the sofa that Sherlock used to curl up in, and he blew his own bloody brains out!

Sherlock had known it was a possibility. Of course he had known. John had been contemplating suicide before he had hobbled into St. Bart's behind Mike Stamford and changed Sherlock's life forever, bringing with him tea, biscuits, laughter, and friendship.

Sentiment! Useless! Still, Sherlock couldn't think around it. It kept invading his brain, reprograming his mind to remind him of John's high-pitched laughter, of his deep ocean eyes, of his generous complements, of his warmth, and of his endless loyalty.

Sherlock knew that his John had been willing to follow him anywhere, and he had known that death would be no different. He had trusted his brother to protect him when he could not do so himself. That had been a mistake of egregious proportions.

Mycroft was busy getting ready to announce Sherlock's faux suicide to the public. That would not be necessary though. It would be real soon enough.

Sherlock did not even go back to 221B before he went onto the roof of St. Bart's. He saw no reason to. Without his blogger, it wasn't really home to him anyway.

As Sherlock moved to step onto the edge of the roof, he couldn't help but compare it to Romeo and Juliet: one pretends to die and the other kills himself out of grief before the first awakens to find the plan has gone awry and also commits suicide. John would have found the similarities humorous. The thought nearly caused Sherlock to smile.

This was not due to love lost. Oh no. Sherlock's reasoning was different. Weakness was the first. John had shown him another world. A world without John would be cold and horrible. Not even cocaine and nicotine, Sherlock's oldest friends, could fill the cracks that John had repaired anymore. Sherlock had known true happiness, and the numbness and calm that his addictions had brought would not be enough anymore. Sherlock's other reason was a bit more noble, he thought.

John had never faltered, never questioned. He had believed in and stood by Sherlock through everything. John never would have turned from Sherlock if and when he called.

Lestrade had made Mycroft a copy of John's note when his brother had asked for it. He had given it to Sherlock, and as the Consulting Detective readied himself to fall once again, he recalled one of the final lines of John's note.

"_I would have followed him anywhere, Greg, and I know in my heart that he would have done the same for me." _

John was right, of course. He had already died for John once. He would do it again. He wasn't going to leave his doctor alone. It was Sherlock's turn to follow him, because he had been so alone before, and he owned John Watson so much.

His phone buzzed, and a dozen or so black cars all came speeding down the street with a swiftness that was almost impressive. Sherlock ignored them, took his phone from his pocket, threw it to the ground behind him, spread his arms, and fell.

Surely the world could do with one less proper genius.

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**How was it? I am pretty proud of it. If there are any mistakes, please let me know. I like to fix those. I hope I didn't make you too sad! **

**~Elizabeth**


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